


At the End of It

by charnelhouse



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Guilty Thor (Marvel), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Sad with a Happy Ending, Smut, Thor Has PTSD (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28989657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charnelhouse/pseuds/charnelhouse
Summary: You are the only thing Thor has left.
Relationships: Thor (Marvel)/Reader, Thor/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	At the End of It

At the end of it all - Thor finds himself helpless. He finds himself half-mad. He has never been frightened - certainly not for _himself_ \- but _this_ is different.

He had _failed_.

The Golden Prince - the King of Asgard - the God of Thunder had inexplicably failed to save the people he loved (their deaths play on an endless, colorful loop). He tastes smoke on his tongue - ash in his mouth from the countless people who had gone to dust before him. 

Steve’s voice in his ear... _Thor? Thor?! Where’d he go?_

He has no one. He has nothing. 

_well_

_not nothing_

You slide your hand into his - the hot brush of your palm - the dried blood on your temple. You’re his friend...you’re _something._

“Are you alright?” Your smile is tight - it’s almost hideous - too many teeth - you’re trying so hard not to cry - not to spook him and _fuck_ he’s really made a disaster of it all...

He is alone. He is so fucking alone with his dead brother and father and mother...his city turned to space particles and star fragments. He still can taste Hela in the back of his throat - the gaping maw of his eye socket. He almost wishes that it was still gone - that the scarred, piece of flesh would serve as a reminder of his tragedy. 

“Thor,” you murmur. “Are you okay?”

It’s out of his mouth before he can take it back (his weakness on full display, his grief in his hands).

“May I...can I...go home with you?”

He can’t explain himself further - he bites his tongue to stop the tears that are burning bright at the back of his head. 

He should confess - he should tell you that his world is gone and he has lost it all. He should tell you that there is nothing for him but the press of your hand in his and how he _needs_ it.

“Of course,” you tell him - swift and hard. “Of course.”

* * *

It gets worse for him. He makes it only a few days before he breaks down in front of you. He cries - heaving, bone-shaking sobs that turn to wet gasps as he desperately paws at the floor - and then the wood table in your small apartment - his fingers crushing it to splinters.

It crumbles and he cannot stop - ugly, messy endless crying spilling from his chest.

His heart pounds furiously between his ribs and he’s almost sure he’d like to stuff his fist inside and rip it free.

But he doesn’t.

You’re right there on the ground with him and you crawl to him on your hands and knees. You wrap your arms around his shoulders - straining to hold all of him - as if you could - as if you wished it. You’re so small that his hand is able to curl snugly around your neck - the back of your skull. Your face looks up at him - slack and grey.

You press your cheek to his back as you hush him - as you stroke his forearms - his chest - the rough shag of his hair.

“Thor,” you whisper. “It’s alright. It’s fine.”

He shoves his mouth against the skin of your bicep - burrows his nose into your shoulder. He’s got nothing else inside him - vomit sits uncomfortably in his belly and if he speaks he will no doubt lose it all over your glossy floor.

You answer for him.

“You’re here...you’re with me.”

* * *

He has night terrors - black drenched dreams that gnash at him with fangs. Blood in his mouth and his nose and the constant echoing snap of his brother’s neck breaking over and over again.

_loki loki loki_

_His tricks gone dry - no more do-overs or redirections. He was gone._

He wakes one night to your cry. He’s foggy - his nightmare receding back into his gut where it will no doubt fester.

He finally sees you next to his bed - your hand over your mouth - your eyes wet and glassy. He spots red on your fingers - red streaking down your chin.

_oh no...oh gods no...what had he done_

He sits up and drags you into his lap and cups your cheek - he gently moves your fingers from your mouth... _let me see...please let me see_ and there’s blood in your mouth - your tooth no doubt knocked against your lips from his own damn fist.

You were screaming in your sleep,” you try to explain -your throat thick. “I’m so sorry - I shouldn’t have tried to wake-”

“No,” He brushes his knuckles over your soft cheek - your bruised chin. “No - don’t say sorry!”

He puts you on the bathroom sink and cleans your mouth - the slit at the corner - the swelling skin. He finds antiseptic and cotton and goes through the motions of taking care of you - comforting you. 

Everything in him is broken. He _loathes_ himself.

Afterward - when he’s sure that you are fine and patched up - he goes back to his room and shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes until spots explode in all the black. Like galaxies - like the end of Asgard - like a rain of comets.

_i hurt you_

_i hurt you_

_i hurt you when you were trying to save me_

He can’t fucking look at you for weeks so he suffers silently in his room. 

He only stops when you bodily haul him out of it and tell him to _grow up_.

* * *

It happens because of course it does...it’s not like there was only friendship between you both.

The chemistry had been there - the attraction - all of it made sweeter by the fact that the world had ended and they were just... _shattered_.

You order Chinese food for Thor and they eat it on your living room carpet. The table is still in pieces.

Somewhere between him licking the inside of the cartoon and you trying to clean his beard with a napkin - he finds himself on top of you. Your body is soft and pliant and small in his arms and he leans down and kisses you breathless - sticks his tongue as deep as he can - as if he could fuck you by way of your mouth - as if he could swallow your heart and lungs and bones and he groans when your nails claw into his hair and _pull_.

It’s fast - it’s overwhelming - he shoves at your pants and rips your shirt in two and he shudders as your hand wraps around his cock and _tugs_. It’s rough and harsh (which he’s always favored) and he can smell how aroused you are - how desperate you’re growing between your legs and -

His forehead drops against yours - he is fit to burst - he is burning and aching and he wants to bury himself inside you - to the hilt - to the end of it.

“Please,” he mutters as his fingers work you - twist and scrape and curl to get you ready for him. “Please make me forget - make me feel good - make me...make me...make me...”

And you hush him - fit your palm around his throat and jaw and squeeze because you know he enjoys a little pain - a little sharpness and violence in his pleasure. He’d told you once - drunk and loose - and _of course,_ you had remembered. 

He loses himself - he slides inside you and it is _everything_ \- he fucks you in earnest - he fucks you like the God he is with the harsh, wet roll of his hips and his knees digging into the floor and your hands around his throat as he takes you in rough, brutal strokes because _you can handle it_.

_c’mon...it’s okay...you can go harder_

And something in his chest breaks open - the swell of hot tears appearing on his cheeks and spilling onto your chest and he can’t stop himself or apologize and instead he looks at you and shudders.

_are you here? are you with me?_

_come back to me...come back...you’re safe_

He can’t...he’s lost to it and you’re clutching around him molten and soaked and he’s so fucking broken and shattered and finally _finally_ you pull him down to you and sink your teeth into the cord of his throat.

He howls - his world going back to color - his focus back to you. His failures and ghosts rolling back from the shore of his mind like white sea froth.

_you you you...there’s you_

_There’s you at the end of it...at the end of this._

He’s fucking you sloppily at this point - the guttural squelch of his thick cock taking you apart on the floor of your home.

_the home you had offered him_

_his only home - what he has left_

When he comes - it’s an embarrassing amount. You’ve ruined him - you’ve drained him - he’s giving it all to you and you _sigh_ \- overfilled and sated and he watches it spill down your legs when he slips out of you.

The pain is still there - the memories heavy and softly cooing to him along with the guilt and the grief and panic. 

He looks at you and your eyes are shiny - staring back at him and _seeing_ him.

You know...you can tell.

You reach out - stroking his chest - his stomach - _down down down_ until you grip his limp cock - thumb over the head and he’s already hard again - he’s already bending down and looming over you - his knees digging into the floor as his palms lay flat to frame your face - and _oh_ \- he would like to forget again.


End file.
